


Everyone Loves a Saint, After They're Dead

by o_aphrodite, sarahworm



Category: A Simple Favor (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/F, Suburbia, Supernatural Elements, a horror comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23979166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_aphrodite/pseuds/o_aphrodite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahworm/pseuds/sarahworm
Summary: Stephanie and Emily move to the suburbs, to ghoulish effect.
Relationships: Emily Nelson/Stephanie Smothers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Everyone Loves a Saint, After They're Dead

Emily and Stephanie live in the kind of suburb with friendly faces around each fence post, the kind with a name like _Oak Hills_ or _Garden Groves_ , a name that implies plurality, community, where really there’s nothing more than a labyrinth of cul-de-sacs and maybe a strip mall with a Chinese restaurant and a dollar store. 

Their home looks small and normal from the street, but inch your way around the eastern corner where you’d expect a fenced-in yard to be, and there’s nothing but more walls, more corners, slender doors peering out from crooked eaves. Mrs. Applewhite once heard Stephanie mention the crabapple tree in the courtyard and the puzzle of where such a courtyard could be kept her awake for hours that night. 

Mrs. Applewhite is kept puzzled quite a lot. Mr. Jones, from next door, isn’t able to satiate her curiosity any more than has peeking through the curtains while Emily and Stephanie filter in and out of their peculiar home at peculiar times, often dressed rather peculiarly. For example, Emily keeps her hair longer than any decent woman should, and her pantsuits are far too improper for whatever career keeps her away from home for seemingly days at a time. At least Mrs. Applewhite thinks so; Mrs. Applewhite would never dream of wearing anything as punishing as those heels nor anything so unfeminine as that blazer. And that briefcase! _What_ is in that briefcase that she carts around as if it were attached to her hand?

Mr. Applewhite asks Mrs. Applewhite to pay them no mind, but Mr. Applewhite never pays anyone any mind. He just doesn’t understand. He and Mr. Jones could drink beer on the porch all Saturday afternoon and still not notice Stephanie’s uncomfortable propensity for keeping her curtains closed. Mrs. Applewhite may never understand the male sex, but she very much wants to understand the goings-on in the house whose backyard surely violates some zoning ordinance or another. 

If Mrs. Applewhite recalls correctly, the neighborhood met Emily first, when they saw her shaking firm hands with the realtor and then directing the depositing of endless boxes by men who never said a word, and whom she didn’t appear to pay. They certainly don’t see her leaving for work and returning home at normal hours; her car, sleek and black, is almost never in the driveway. Tommy Valance, the track team’s star sprinter, claimed that he sees it whispering out of the driveway, shining with dew, in the mornings when the sun was just alighting on the mailboxes. 

Mrs. Stuart claims that it was Stephanie who announced the odd couple’s arrival when she brought a pecan pie to the house next door at nine o’clock sharp that first Saturday morning. The Holts, the owners of the house, thanked Stephanie’s cantaloupe-sweet smile and then left the pie on their counter, where it sat for weeks, picture-perfect as the day it was baked. One can never be too careful. 

It wasn’t that the two women weren’t welcome there, the neighbors would mutter to each other, over the swishing of the sprinklers and the rolling crunch of the garbage bins. It was just that there was something _off_ about them. It was the way they never complained, not a word from Emily about the length of the workday, not a peep from Stephanie about the tiredness of ironing. No one knew where they had come from, but they fit in so smoothly, as smooth as the click of a revolver.

Especially Stephanie. Stephanie wears knee-length denim with smart blouses that button to her throat. Her hair is brown and long, respectably parted down the middle. And the children absolutely adore her, for all of the trepidation the adults have when she bounces down the steps of that odd, uncomfortable house. She always has a treat for the children, often an apple or pack of crayons. The children throw an absolute fuss when the responsible parents snatch the snacks away upon their return home, but no harm has come to those children with flippant parents who don’t bother to check their children’s bounty. 

Emily smiles too, on rare occasions, but her smile isn't like Stephanie’s, not in the slightest. Stephanie’s large eyes are as playful and excitable as a puppy, where Emily’s are as mischievous as the tomcat that simply will not leave the Holts’ dog alone. Those eyes don’t suit a face as pleasing and symmetrical as hers. What Lisa Davis would do for an elegant nose like Emily’s! And thus began the rumors that Emily makes herself scarce to hide the bandages after her _procedures_. It was Mrs. Holt’s opinion that no one with a face like that hasn’t been under a knife, but _real_ women are in vogue and Emily will surely regret it one day. 

They move in during the long days of August, when the heat seems to stretch in the air like bubblegum and the children daily flock, birdlike, to the Valance’s swimming pool, Tommy lifeguarding with a practiced ease. And not long behind them comes the changing of the season, strangely early but welcome all the same. Those who grew up in the next division over remark on the first turned-leaf Labor Day they can remember. Mrs. Stuart remembers her childhood days further north and sighs. The air has a bite to it, this year, but one you barely notice. It reminds her of leeches.

Despite the women’s strange schedules, both are in attendance for the barbecue Tom Hill hosts every first Monday. No one is sure who invited the women, and no one will admit to it when asked. If the women notice the whispers, they politely ignore them. Or maybe they can’t hear the whispering at all, not over Stephanie’s chatter about the difference the addition of spinach makes in a bolognese. Rudely enough, Emily appears glued to the phone in her hand, looking up only when Stephanie places a hand on her upper arm to laugh just a touch too loudly at Mr. Lewis’s tired jokes. The men do seem to like Stephanie, but none will stand too close when Emily’s towering figure hovers nearby. (And who wears heels to a barbecue anyway? Not any respectable woman that Mrs. Applewhite knows.)

The new couple doesn’t have children, but Stephanie’s there at the bus stop anyway, the first day back, handing each gap-toothed child a shiny apple and a tootsie roll pop. Mrs. Applewhite, whose own daughter cut her hair too short and moved to the city years ago now, watches Stephanie wave until the bus turns the corner, and then vanish with a skip back into her home, the front lock turning and the windows covered as usual.

The days spin towards Halloween like the ferris wheel at the county fair, and still Emily and Stephanie are there, present and accounted for at the barbecues, their trash can perfectly in line every Monday, recycling standing beside it twice a month. Stephanie’s joined the book club, and she volunteers at the library, stacking books back on the shelves with a precision that would impress an architect. Emily is still hard to pin down, and her schedule elusive. One rare evening, Mrs. Holt catches sight of Emily pacing the driveway, speaking into her phone with words that would make a sailor blanch.

A week before Halloween, the book club members amble their way out of Mrs. Stuart’s door. Stephanie asks questions about the annual Halloween block party and volunteers to help any and every way she can when someone suggests that Stephanie’s home would be _just_ perfect for a haunted house. All of those corners and none of them have even been inside--

“No, I don’t think so,” Stephanie says, her eyes widening earnestly. “I’m far too boring to host something like that all by myself. And I haven't dusted the baseboards in _ages_." She’s so sweet about it that none of them mark the first time Stephanie’s ever declined to volunteer. 

All Saint’s Day starts so calmly and brightly, with a warm gust of air ruffling the shreds of toilet paper on the Holts’ maple tree that would have been the talk of the street in any other year, that it takes almost a full day for the Valances to realize that Tommy is missing. 

That first night, his father worries the floorboards of their front hall while his mother calls every one of his friends they can think of, and still, the return to normalcy seems just within their grasp. The neighborhood inhales, waiting for the relief of dawn and the comfort of daylight, but by the third day, there are flashlights combing the trees in the woods near the park. Mrs. Applewhite finds herself whispering when she calls Mrs. Stuart and tells her about the statistics she half-remembers from Dateline, as though speaking too loud will bring the truth spiraling down the phone cord and onto her kitchen floor. 

Next to the understandably fretful parents, no one is more diligent or more energetic in the search for Tommy Valance than Stephanie. Ever the volunteer, she prints hundreds of flyers on recycled paper which she staples to every available lamp post and hands to every receptive (and some not-so-receptive) person in a two-mile radius. She gracefully assures the neighborhood that she will personally remove the flyers once Tommy is found, as litter has no place among the neatly trimmed hedges and tightly maintained sidewalks.

Then again, as Tommy’s disappearance stretches days and then weeks, not even the perfectly rotund and cheerfully bright November pumpkins dotting every porch can dispel the oppressive disquiet that appears to settle over the neighborhood, dusting every interaction like weed killer. 

“Good morning,” Mrs. Applewhite says to Stephanie when she catches Stephanie pruning the immaculately tilled flower garden that seemed to have sprung overnight along the inner edges of Stephanie’s lawn on the first of the month. 

(Despite the freshness of Tommy’s vanishment, Mrs. Applewhite had found room amid her concern to ask Stephanie about the abrupt garden. Stephanie had simply gushed about Emily spending the early hours carving up the grass and planting the flowers just for Stephanie, as a surprise. Mrs. Applewhite could not imagine such a rigid, unruly woman on her knees with soil caked beneath her manicured fingernails. Or worse! In denim pants and the floral patterned gardening gloves that Stephanie wore. However odd the action may have appeared on Emily, it was undeniable that the burgundy chrysanthemums and orange gerberas were artfully arranged and perfectly seasonal. The squat, glaringly white-picket-fence framing the garden bed even-tempered the mysterious home’s severe exterior, making it appear just a touch less sinister. Moreover, shortly after her hobby began, Stephanie was kind enough to present her neighbors with hand-painted terracotta pots brimming with dahlias as soft as her eyes, to try and mollify their bleak moods. And so, with awfully pretty flowers brightening her windowsill, Mrs. Applewhite let the matter rest.)

Mrs. Applewhite feels terribly sorry for wishing Stephanie a good morning, a boy is missing, after all, but it is only the polite thing to do.

Stephanie returns the greeting with a grin and a wave, flinging a bit of dirt which is then caught in the delicate folds of the flower petals. Stephanie is quick to dab her fingers gingerly between the affected petals, to dislodge the offending dirt. Mrs. Applewhite is briefly reminded of her college years, which she spent studying art and Georgia O’Keefe, but she flushes and blinks away _that_ improper thought. 

“Good morning!” Stephanie chirps, standing and removing her gloves. She tucks her gloves into the pocket of her gardening apron and places her hands on her hips. 

“Don’t tell anyone else, but I’ve got a spare sweet potato pie with your name written all over it,” Stephanie says with a wink as if she is divulging a secret. 

Mrs. Applewhite blushes again. Stephanie must have seen her eat far too much of the pie Stephanie brought to the fall festival hosted by the golf course weeks back. (Before the disappearance, of course. Mrs. Applewhite couldn’t imagine a celebration without Tommy Valance. At least, not yet.)

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Mrs. Applewhite demurs. “It’s so much sugar! And we shouldn’t spoil Mr. Applewhite too much, he simply devoured your brownies at the park’s charity bake sale.” Vaguely, Mrs. Applewhite remembers a time when she balked at the food that came from that house. But that was before she hesitantly nibbled on one of Stephanie’s snickerdoodles at book club. Those snickerdoodles were simply criminal.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” Stephanie insists. “I’m very good at keeping secrets and—,” she glances about as if searching for eavesdroppers. Satisfied, she grins at Mrs. Applewhite conspiratorially, “— I added a touch of cinnamon to the whipped cream.”

“Oh, well,” Mrs. Applewhite can’t help but mirror Stephanie’s smile. “If there’s cinnamon whipped cream, how could I say no?”

Stephanie claps her hands and bounces on the balls of her feet. “I’ll be right back with the pie!” She says, before scampering into the house to fetch the treat. 

When she returns with an impossibly smooth pie dotted with speckled whipped cream, which lined a magnificently crimped crust, Mrs. Applewhite accepts it graciously. 

“Won’t you come in and have a bite yourself?” Mrs. Applewhite asks. “I hardly ever see you eat, you’ll waste away at this rate.” Mrs. Applewhite isn’t sure if she’s actually ever seen Stephanie eat, beyond book club cocktails, but surely she must have because Stephanie attends every potluck, bake sale, and block party the community hosts. 

“Oh, not today,” Stephanie says, with a wistful smile. “Emily is coming home early today and bringing me lunch!” 

“How exciting,” Mrs. Applewhite says, noting that she should keep vigil around noon to catch sight of the elusive Emily. “You girls have a pleasant day.” 

“Thank you!” Stephanie says, before stretching, pulling out her gloves, and returning to her tidy little garden. 

As she walks away, Mrs. Applewhite can’t help but think, _what a sweet girl._

* * *

“Goddamn, babygirl, how many times have I told you not to play with your food?” Emily asks, swirling the gin in her chilled martini glass and looking thoroughly unimpressed at Stephanie’s second attempt at heart-healthy borscht. Olive oil, red wine vinegar, steamed beets, and human aorta for texture. 

“And how many times have I asked you to stop tossing vermouth into my potted plants?” Stephanie retorts, stirring her concoction. “Besides, I stewed the aorta before adding it to the beets, so it should be less tough than last time.” 

“Really?” Emily muses around the rim of her glass. “And what did you do about coagulation? I nearly choked to death the last time you fed me this shit.” 

“Slow cooker!” Stephanie announces, her pride evident in her upright shoulders as she gestures to the crockpot. It is set to “warm”, and Emily wrinkles her nose. “I’ll stir the blood in slowly when the rest is ready,” Stephanie continues. “And then I’ll add the seared slices of heart before the non-fat Greek yogurt and horseradish garnish. I wanted to add dill, all of the books recommend having at least three colors in a meal, but I looked and we don’t have any.”

She looks at Emily pointedly. Emily feigns contrition as she places a hand over her own heart. 

“Oh, _no_. I don’t know _how_ I could have forgotten the _grocery store_ in between draining a body, gutting that body, _burying_ that body, and working to afford our lifestyle,” Emily says, in mock exasperation. “I’ll lose my own head, next.” Stephanie puts a hand on her hip, gearing herself up for a lecture on splitting chores, and so Emily wraps an arm around Stephanie’s waist to pull her close. As sure as Stephanie raids every Joann’s sale, Stephanie swoons. So much so that she drops her wooden spoon in the pot to brace her hand on Emily’s shoulder. 

“I’ll get you dill,” Emily promises, voice as smooth as Tennessee whiskey. 

“We also need vanilla?” Stephanie offers coquettishly. 

“And vanilla,” Emily amends, leaning down to kiss her. Emily doesn’t even mind when Stephanie’s teeth slide from their sheaths and nick her lip. Better blood than the lingering taste of creme de cacao that’s always on Stephanie’s tongue after book club with the neighbors. She doesn’t even drink the shit, she coats her tongue just enough for flavor and appearances and perhaps to torment Emily. 

“I love you,” Stephanie murmurs against Emily’s bloody mouth. 

“And you’re worse off for it,” Emily replies. “But I love you too, babygirl.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hit us up for some recipes :)


End file.
